Inside the Mind of a Nathan

I was on my way to writing a fancy poem, but I got distracted by brushing my teeth, making a Jack Sparrow meme, and other such things. Bleh. On my drive back home, I was soooo excited for everything! Now, I'm just something else besides excited about everything.

Meh. I don't feel like writing. I've had three birthdays so far: one to celebrate with friends, one to celebrate with Rudolphs, and one on which I actually turned 27. A fourth approaches this Sunday, which I will celebrate with Whites. The dishwasher is running. I like the sound of the dishwasher. It might even be better than a fan: it has a slightly lower pitch, and the water noises sound like waves or a trickling stream.

I think I might be losing my mind. Just in case, I decided to eat a cookie. They are the best cookies! My super-hot wife made them: chocolate chip. They had the absolute perfect balance between doughy softness and crunch. I didn't know cookies could be made that well. I've had so many cookies throughout my life, and they'll often have burnt edges, be hardly baked in the middle, contain singed chocolate chips, or some such thing. These, however, were downright perfect.

I don't feel like writing. Why is that? Deep down, I  need  to write. Every now and then, I feel this metaphysical pressure — something like the pressure in a bladder, something like the pressure you feel underwater when you need to go up for air, something like a headache that's slowly starting to nag, something like the pressure in your stomach just before a good burp. It's not a charming muse's call. The literary angels don't sound their trumpets. It's this gross pressure that builds until your system can't deal with it anymore. BELCH, and you feel better.

I really don't feel like writing. I really feel like playing Skyrim because I just acquired the Dawnguard expansion. I'm looking forward to being a vampire lord.